Little Black Book
by Verdot
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, work as a Turk was not an orgy. Some implied Tseng/Shera yes , Tseng/Gun F and Reno hanging around.


Contrary to popular belief, work as a Turk was not an orgy.

Reno had complained about it once, and Rude had said in not so many words to Tseng what could only be described as a 'duh' look. When they weren't working, they were sleeping, or eating. The management made it a point to give them a little free time as possible until they reached a certain rank. Though, part of that could be attributed to Veld's school of thought, which was half military and half priest. And all based on deprivations and disciplines. Tseng still hadn't figured out how the man could get things to happen with nothing more than a few well-placed words, but he suspected that it involved selling one's soul.

"My dick is going to fall off at this rate," Reno muttered, one eye on his paperwork and the other on some secretary. They were due in for some new people, and Tseng didn't feel like listening to Reno's whines about his lack of a sex life. He tossed a piece of wadded up paper in his general direction in a most unprofessional manner.

"You have a right hand," Tseng monotoned, eyes practically glued to the regulations on his desk.

"Just because you've got a stick up your--"

"Then why don't _you_ ask the Chief for some time off." His smile contained enough irony to fill a pool.

Reno groaned. "We can't all be eunuchs."

Rude snickered near silently. Tseng was starting to hate Midgar summers at this rate. Everyone was restless, everything stank, and there was no place to go to escape the oppression of heat and fog. Even above the Plate was hazy.

"You can try and talk one of the newer recruits out of their suits before they hear about your reputation." Like a lot of things in the company, reputation was everything. Some days he wondered if Reno really was loud, or if he was merely to keep up what people thought he should be.

_ooo_

Tseng could tell which one was going to be the one Reno would go after first. Long brown ponytail, smiled more than the others. He'd read that she came from wealth, and even if he hadn't gotten her write-up beforehand, he would have guessed it by her manicured nails and better tailored suit. She was just the type to take a fling as a fling, just the type to not take being ignored personally. A sport huntress.

The dark-haired one was probably a lesbian. That or at least leaned more on that side. Self defense had taught him to make note of things like that.

And the blond, well, Tseng couldn't help but notice blondes. They were fetishized to the point of divinity in his native culture, and he couldn't help a longer glance than with the others. Judging by her background--military school--she would likely be the coldest of them. Tseng would work easiest with her, because she would take to Veld's type of discipline the quickest. He couldn't help a little envy; she was likely the pride of her family, judging by the way she stood, posture more rigid than the Chief's.

"And there's Tseng. If you're lucky, you'll be assigned with him for some missions." Of course, the way Veld said it sounded like a double threat.

The blonde regarded him will all the interest a fox gives to a fly.

_ooo_

A month later, when the summer hit its hottest, free time came.

Veld and he were the last ones to leave, like always, technically always on call. Once you got to a certain level, that's how it was. When he'd first started he thought it was because Veld was taking extra precautions with him, but had Tseng been anyone else, Veld would still be there. There were bets that sometimes the Chief slept in his office. At sixteen Tseng would have found that a yardstick to measure his dedication by, but at twenty-two it was starting to look strangely tragic. It made him uncomfortable to think of the Chief as a man instead of a figure, the kind that had weaknesses, fears, and maybe regrets just like everyone else.

He'd made it to the elevator when his PHS went off, a simple message of 'change of plans', and he turned heel back to the office. He imagined the skid marks on the floor were from where Reno had run after bolting from his desk once the clock was up.

"I need you to call up one of the girls and keep an eye on Palmer."

"Which one?"

"Whichever one you're most comfortable working with. Preferably one who can dance. I'm sure you know which of them is qualified, by now."

Veld had tendency to give Tseng as little information as possible when assigning him to a task these days. Little jabs that reminded him that he couldn't get by on orders, but he had to start making _decisions_. Frankly the thought terrified him; he'd grown accustomed to being the left hand of the power structure. He wanted to bring it up numerous times, but he'd remembered that Veld never responded well to questions of a non-direct nature, and even worse to _doubts_.

"Dancing?" The look Veld gave made him instantly regret asking a question.

"It's a party. The Space Department finally produced something." _You could have looked all this up, that's what those computers they have now are for._

He remembered how he'd been taught 'manners'; Veld had driven him to a ballroom dancing studio and dropped him off without so much as a reason why. Later, after he'd been thoroughly embarrassed by a yappy old lady who was as graceful as a large cat, he'd been asked what he'd _learned_. She looked like she could barely stand, but she moved in circles much quicker than he, a young man in the prime of his life. He said that he'd learned never to underestimate anyone, especially not old women.

Six weeks later, he could tango.

_ooo_

The blonde one's name was Anna Warren, and in addition to being a markswoman, she also had credits in a Costan form of dance. Just why a military school graduate would have spent time learning it, well, that was something almost interesting. But then people always had something.

"What is the purpose of this mission again?"

"We're just watching, Anna. That's all."

All the smart roughnecks were out, wearing their merits in patches on their sleeves. Tseng had suspected that this was supposed to be a somewhat formal party, but that the people it was thrown for couldn't care less. They weren't scientists and they weren't administrators. It was just as well. The rookie was better off here, where her obvious foundations--clean, distinct, disciplined--would be shaken just a little. She hadn't done enough to warrant having to keep in eye on Heideggar on his trips to Sector Seven.

There were also other good things about a party like this.

"You're over-dressed."

"I'm always over-dressed, Shera."

The woman was older than she let on, older than she looked. Shera MacDowell was brilliant and unobtrusive and they had an understanding, as much as anyone could. While working she was the quiet guardian of her department, something most people mistook for being shy. But like people assumed he was unsure--which was only a half truth, how could he be anything but cautious while working under a man that didn't even have a birthday--it was only a symptom of something else.

Captain Highwind hadn't quite gotten rowdy yet. He supposed that was why she was lingering on his side of the room.

He made no effort to introduce the rookie to her. "You must be very proud of your department's accomplishment."

She fiddled with her ponytail and he noted grease on her elbow. "I have my reservations. There's still some kinks to work out."

The conversation didn't really matter. Pleasantries, formalities. The Space Department had gotten funding over SOLDIER and the Turks this month, they were the golden ones for now. Rivalries weren't fought with fists and sticks these days, if they had ever been. Tseng was less and less in the field and more often a fly on the wall. He was starting to miss when the lessons were obvious.

Of course, when the rookie's back was turned and Shera slipped one of her notes into his pocket, he knew that the conversation was just a formality for her too.

_ooo_

"So there were these twins, right? And Rude was all '...' and I said to them, 'Hey if you don't like baldy, there's enough of me for the both of you!'" Monday morning meant that Reno had extremely improbable stories to tell.

"I have it under good authority that you and Rude sat at home and watched TV all weekend."

"Yeah, right, who's your source, the rookie? Should get a better source. So what did _you_ do over the weekend, Tseng?"

Above all things, he'd been taught discretion. The kind of discretion that never commented on how Chief disappeared for same three days every year, and the kind that kept his little black book in memory.

"I got a look at the new Space Department prototype. Other than that, nothing much."

"Man, you never have _any_ good stories. Stiff."

Work as a Turk wasn't an orgy, but it didn't mean they were completely devoid of anything in their personal lives.


End file.
